


Rise Up

by topsoilAlchemist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drinking, Humanstuck, M/M, funky timelines, im not sure what else i should tag so if theres anything please go ahead and ask me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21707110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topsoilAlchemist/pseuds/topsoilAlchemist
Summary: Dave Strider isnotmagic. He's not a wizard, not a warlock, not involved in anything occult, ethereal or otherwise batshit crazy. And so, he is understandably concerned when his mind begins to leap from his body and into strange, unknown places, all following a single, dark-haired stranger and an unrelenting trend of everything suddenly makingno goddamn sense whatsoever.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 17
Kudos: 90





	1. Sunbeams, Sburb and Vivid Green

It’s dark, and you’re alone, and you suppose that’s for the better. You feel the goosebumps on your legs prickling up in waves under your skin, knowing your boxers do nothing to keep out the chill, but too tired to move from the chair where you’ve been slumped for several hours now. When did the sun go down? You don’t know. You watched it happen, those soft, dying rays tracing lines through the clutter of the room, cutting swathes in the creeping night - but now they’re gone, slipping below the horizon to light up a stranger’s sleeping face. 

His hair is black, and messy, loose curls falling over his cheeks. Mouth slightly open, his gentle breaths are almost tangible against your forehead as you watch, unthinking and unmoving, until a single gentle beam of light glides over him, passing through you like you’re nothing, and he blinks in the new brightness. He’s- sort of pretty, eyes scrunched up and calloused fists stretching above his head, teeth bared in a yawn. Absent-mindedly, the stranger rubs the sleep from his eyes, and you see them flicker open, letting the blurring world come back into focus. For a moment, those eyes are pretty too. Dark, and soft, long lashes fluttering apart as the stranger takes in this new, warm sunlight. But only for a moment.

His whole body tenses, fists clenching as his shoulder rears back to strike, a bitter snarl twisting his lips, and you feel- a _force_ . Not the punch, but the _intent_ , crashing into your skull and sending you falling backwards, downwards, silent wind rushing past your ears - do you even _have_ ears? - as you grapple to take control of your own body; but you can’t find your limbs; your fingers, your legs, they’re _gone_ , numb and unseen in this field of flying nothingness, leaving you empty and void save for the rising panic at the edges of your vision, climbing and sticking and obscuring all that you have left, fierce and sharp as it claws at your throat, your head, your chest- your _chest_.

You fall for one last second, a hard, heavy breath jumping into your lungs as your eyes snap open, fingers stiff and mouth dry. 

And then it’s dark, and you’re alone.

The clutter of your room is just as you left it.

Each dirty plate and partnerless sock lies still, ordinary and solid, as if you had only closed your eyes for a moment, perhaps drifted into a light, dreamless stupor while your body lay peaceful and quiet in the chair.

But you know that isn’t what happened.

You, frankly, have no fucking idea what could have sent your consciousness drifting with the sunlight and into the window of a pretty, angry stranger, but you sure as hell know what sent you hurtling back - and well, the day you choose, in some fit of extreme idiocy, to _not_ stick your nose into whatever dubious shenanigans have just helpfully presented themselves will be a sad, sad day for the name of Strider.

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT]

**TG: rose youre not going to fuckin believe this**

**TT: Ah, David, to what do I owe the pleasure? Oh, but surely you must be joking? Well, that truly is an event worthy of raising me from my slumber at such a ridiculous time in the morning. How could I ever repay you for your generosity in sharing it? But alas, the hour grows later. Goodnight.**

**TG: no im serious some absolutely weird shit just went down**

**TG: im talking some uber spooky dave go to therapy level bullshittery**

**TG: just some real sicknasty ghostly ass shenanigans you know**

**TT: ...**

**TT: I’m listening.**

**TG: okay first of all i have no idea if i am currently high so you might want to take this with several boulders of salt**

**TG: but i think i just rode a sunbeam half way across the world and got punched in the face by a dude ive never met because i was watching him sleep in a totally non homoerotic way**

**TT: Dave. Did you genuinely and unironically contact me at 2AM to tell me that you had a dream about some obscure celebrity quite rightly assaulting you in his own home?**

On second thoughts, it may have not actually been the best idea you’ve ever had to phrase it like that.

**TG: okay not quite that many boulders of salt**

**TG: im talking a real total stranger that i swear on sbahj i have never seen before in my entire life**

**TG: and then i slammed back into my body like i just got bucked off one of those rodeo bulls and into the foam mats on the ground except the foam was dave meat and instead of being a rectangle it was a me**

**TT: Go back to sleep, Dave.**

tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased being pestered by  turntechGodhead [TG]

Perhaps it really was just a dream.

But the thing is- every dream you’ve had, in all your 18 years, was so much less… _real._ This was bright, and vivid, so close up and somehow only just out of reach. You remember his eyes, almost red in the sunlight, each freckle and small, pale scar dotting his cheeks, as if you could still see him, barely inches away from your face. But the only face you see is your own, brooding and flushed in the grimy bathroom mirror, hair plastered to your forehead and still dripping from the shower.

The sun is rising again, and you don’t want to be alone.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] opened memo on board SQUAD SHENANIGANISMS --

****

**TG: are yall free today**

****

**TG: idk about you guys but im absolutely feelin a game night coming on**

ectobiologist [EB] **responded to memo.**

****

**EB: yeah, i’m free! :B**

****

**EB: just have to convince dad. or sneak out like the rebel i am. either or.**

****

**TG: man the most rebellious thing youve ever done was submit an essay with one entire plagiarised sentence**

****

**gardenGnostic [GG]** ** **responded to memo.****

****

****

****

**EB: okay, but it’s not like i regret that decision every living minute or anything.**

****

**GG: im up for this too, if nobody minds bec coming! jakes going to be busy and pop hasnt come back from his trip yet :(**

****

**TG: are you kidding we love bec**

****

**TG: literally the goodest boy ever to good and im not even saying that ironically**

**tentacleTherapist [TT]** ****responded to memo.****

****

****

****

**TT: I may have to excuse myself, unfortunately. I have a meeting tonight.**

****

**GG: aw, do you really have to work through game night?**

****

**TT: Sadly, yes. It’s all very serious business escapades, I’m afraid.**

****

**EB: how about afterwards?**

****

**TT: I’ll see if I can make space.**

The rest of the day is fast, and blurry. There’s work at the decrepit little vintage vinyl store down the road, and squashed sandwiches for lunch. A dark-haired girl smiles at you on the way home, and you look down, grinning but unsure what to say. You don’t think about her again after that. Dirk comes home from his own work, greeting you with a persistent hair ruffle and a grunted “Hey Bro.” before disappearing into his room. Nothing strange, nothing hidden, not even a distant, straining glint of the events of the night before.

A part of you is disappointed. The rest is relieved. 

It was just- a fluke. A strange, bright dream emerging from a consciousness full of misplaced hopes. You’re cool. You’re okay, and it won’t happen again. Just pull back up what remains of that childhood facade, and hide behind your coolkid persona. _It was just a dream._

You’re jolted from your thoughts again when a familiar, rattling knock chimes at the front door.

“Yo, Davey!”

“ _Yo, Davey?_ ” You tease, stifling a laugh. Your best friend, standing meekly on the doorstep, adjusts the bag slung over his shoulder and shrugs.

“I- may or may not have already had a bottle of the violently green shit Jade is bringing. And uh- sort of really need to go to the bathroom.”

“Ahah, man, you really can’t hold your AJ, can you?”

He playfully shoves at you as he pushes past to get into the house, warm laughter filling the air.

Maybe- maybe everything really is okay.

John wanders further inside, already knowing the layout as of the place as well as his own, and your brother thunders down the stairs with the intent of devouring whatever he can find in the kitchen. Somewhere down the road, a loud, excitable bark is sounding, accompanied by childish giggles and a half-serious reprimand. This- this is familiar. This is safe, and real, and all you’ve ever wanted.

Breathing out a heavy sigh, you lean back against the wall and close your eyes.

And then you keep falling. A loud, undignified yelp later, you land unceremoniously on cobbled ground, bathed in balmy evening light. Except- it’s almost as if the light is passing _through_ you, and- oh.

Oh, _shit_.

The alleyway is long, and narrow, two high walls of brick on either side trapping you in against a rusted wire fence, and just a few feet away from you, half hidden in shadow, is that same pretty stranger, poised and ready to strike.

He’s- shorter than you would have expected, with softer edges and dark, concealing clothing, but it’s definitely him, distorted by a steely glint in his expression entirely at odds with the vulnerability you witnessed before. There’s something else too, catching the light strangely as your eyes adjust, curved and lethal in his black-nailed hands- 

“Dude, is that a fucking _scythe?”_

You don’t get an answer.

Instead, something whacks into you from behind, and you realise with a jolt that it’s the sudden, overwhelming feeling of your own body pushing against the wall with an impossible force, every inch of the plaster crashing into you all at once and far too fast-

“Dave? You good?”

Blinking to clear your head, you sink back to reality.

“I- ah- yeah. Yeah.”

Pushing away the panic and storing it deep below for later contemplation, you take a wobbly step forward.

“I’m cool. Fine. Fine as this ass in shorts that say ‘tasty’ on the butt, my man. Just zoned the fuck out there for a second.”

The worrying creases fade away from his eyes, and John beckons you to follow him into the lounge.

Although now wonderfully free of obnoxiously asscheeked smuppets, your house is still run-down in places. The furniture is old and scarred by swords, all holding more than enough memories to make up for the creaks in the wood and the filed-down springs hiding underneath layers of new upholstery. The computer tucked away in the corner, cracks and all, is no exception. It’s an ancient, boxy thing, plastered in electrical tape in a way that is almost _definitely_ hazardous - but well, it was the most stable thing in this place for those years, hidden away in your room spewing a constant stream of comforting blue light. John pushes in the power button with an audible click, quickly followed by the clanking and thrumming of distinctly 2009-era tech and the quieter sounds of a disc being inserted.

You wouldn’t usually pay attention to all of this.

But you suppose- you’re trying to hold onto this reality. Refusing to face the fact that hey, _something is happening._ Refusing to acknowledge that you might have to face it at all.

“Egbert, you got anything to play in mind?”

You push those thoughts away too, falling back onto the couch with one leg pulled up to your chest.

“You remember Sburb?”

“Bro, really? I thought that stopped selling years ago. I don’t even know where my copy ended up.”

John laughs sheepishly, and holds up the now empty game case. “You left it over at mine way back when. I found it a little while ago when Dad went on a mad cleaning spree- and, uh-”

“Oh, holy shit, that is _not_ the Crosbytop-”

“The very same.”

He slaps the side of the uncomfortably shaped laptop, smiling almost proudly. 

“And it still _works?_ ”

“Like a dream!”

“No way man, you’ve gotta be-”

Your disbelief is interrupted by a heavy knock from outside, followed by the mad scrabbling of oversized paws. His face lighting up, John skips to open it, returning within moments with an unbelievably large pack of bottles and a significantly less appealing white blur on his tail. The bottles grunt a hello, waddling to a side table on muscular legs before being set down to reveal a wild-haired girl and a childlike grin. Jade adjusts her glasses and collapses beside you, half leaning against you for support.

You laugh, then yelp as a dense mass of fur and paws piles itself onto your lap.

“Hey, Bec.” The massive dog wags appreciatively as you scratch behind his ears, fingers sinking into his fur. You have to admit, while you were dubious about the two of them to begin with - Jade, with her affinity for cuddles, and Becquerel- well, as a whole - you can’t help but feel like this is how it’s _supposed_ to be. Like on some other Earth, she’s still beside you, a much-needed source of positivity. There’s someone else there too. Not Bec, you think. But you could be wrong.

It doesn’t make sense, as right as it feels.

“Ah, fuc- _oof-”_

The dog’s back feet kick into your stomach as he propels himself back to the floor, sending Jade into a fit of giggles.

Tearing himself away from setting up the crosbytop, John chucks a pair of controllers in your direction, which Jade catches in practised hands, holding one out to you without so much as a flinch.

“Harley. Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She flexes jokingly, her fingers cracking as they interlace together in front of her. 

You have the reflexes, you’re pretty confident in that after the ordeal you reluctantly call your childhood, but in all out strength? Even John could pin you down, to be honest. You make a mental note to check if your funds could support a gym membership somewhere that doesn’t have blood on the walls.

Time passes.

By some miracle, all your old Sburb saves have survived being abandoned for half a decade, and so you play, just as you did back then: building, laughing and talking about nothing as you strive to make the night go forward. 

And it does. The lowering sun dips fully under the horizon, allowing space in the void for the moon to rise, accompanying the warm streetlights outside the window in casting long, soft shadows over the room. You all feel your eyes slipping closed, lids growing heavy in the darkness, but drown it out in vivid green and careless giggles over the strangest of things, reluctant to let this feeling end. Eventually, Rose sidles in, greeted with a chorus of “Hhh- _heyyyyyy!_ ”s and a toast all round, the clinking bottles giving the best type of ringing in your ears. Rose sighs, shaking her head warmly, and brings out a pitcher of iced water.

Thankfully, your metabolism is your best friend. Soon, you’re significantly more lucid, sitting on the floor lounging back against the couch, head lolling on the cushions as your eyes trace the patterns on the ceiling.

“Rose. _Ro-sey._ You missed, the _best-_ ” Hiccuping, Jade downs another glass of water. “The _best_ conversation.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Your bro’s got a _crushhhh-”_

“I’ve got a what now?”

Cautiously lifting your head, you decide that this is your time to enter the conversation.

Ignoring this, Jade continues, still surprisingly tipsy considering her build.

“He was on about this- pretty boy he’s been dreaming about.”

“I was _not-”_

“To be fair bro, you absolutely were.” John interjects from above you. He’s sprawled along the length of the couch, his hand in your hair and a shit-eating grin on his face. “Said- you think he’s magic, or something?”

“Dude, you cannot prove that I said that. You can’t prove that I said anything. Maybe I said _nothing,_ and you’re just like, really out of it, huh? Every consider that?”

Jade snorts into a mostly empty bottle.

“Nah, I’m pretty sure you said that.”

“- _’Ohhh, his eyes are so dark, y’all, an’ he’s got a cute li’l’ mole, ri-i-i-ght here-’_ ” Reaching down to you, John jabs a spot on your reddened cheek just under your eye.

And he’s right. The boy does have a mole there, small and dark like a pinprick, stark against his skin like an inverted star.

Jade points an unsteady finger at her brother, devolving into raucous laughter. “That- that was an _amazing_ impression.”

“Come on, I would have remembered saying that-”

“Mmmm, _right_ -”

“What?”

“No, you were _wasted_ by midnight, man.”

You send a pleading glance towards Rose’s position leaning against a wall, from where she has been surveying the scene with amused interest. In all honesty, you expect some witty denial. Maybe feigned disinterest and a smirk, punctuated by a shrug or laugh. There are a lot of things she could have said. The words that actually come out of her mouth, however, are smooth, thoughtful and deadly serious.

“Perhaps you’re seeing into the future. Like ghosts of what _will_ happen.”

“Oh, no way, man. Ghosts maybe I can get behind, since John swears up and down that he saw his Nanna just vibin’ in their kitchen that one time, and I’m fairly certain he is incapable of intentionally lying, but I am _not_ some hierophantic dress-wearing fucker about to embark on a sacred-ass mission to find a cute dude from a bunch of blurry bullshit dreams, no _way._ ”

“Robes.”

“I- what?”

“It would be robes, not dresses.”

“That- that-” You sputter, struggling to get the words out. “ _That’s_ what you took from that? You completely missed the point of my whole spiel, Lalonde.”

“I don’t know man, I think you’d look nice in a dress.”

You shoot a glare in Jade’s direction, but, unsurprisingly, it does nothing to deter her.

“Come on, maybe she’s right! We’ve seen weirder things!”

“Bro, your freakish ability to make animals love you isn’t magic, they probably just smell the infinite dog treats in your pockets.”

At the sound of his favourite word, Becquerel perks up and wriggles out from under a chair. Reluctant to prove your point, Jade attempts to surreptitiously grab a handful of treats from her dress and is promptly overtaken the fatal human need to allow such a good dog (oh yes he is, oh yes he _is)_ to have as many snacks as he can possibly fit into his excitedly snuffling face.

“Okay.” She says, deftly removing the dog snout from her pocket. “You may have a point. But my statement still stands! Being a skeptic is boring.”

“Go get that fucking… prophesied ass, brother.”

“Rose- d _ude-_ “

Ah. You didn’t see her move from her spot by the wall, but Lalonde has shifted slightly to more comfortably hold a small glass of green shit, which is already slightly emptied.

“Oh!” She gasps, crouching down and digging around in her coat. “I brought a- um- Luigi. Got a _Luigi._ Guys, what’s the word?”

“I- Luigi? Mario?” John supplies helpfully, waving an arm in the air. “Uhh- Peach. You brought peaches?”

“No, the- ghost phone, man. The-“ Triumphantly, she yanks a small wooden board from a discarded handbag, and holds it up with both hands. “ _Quiche! Fuck!_ ”

“Oh- ouija?”

“ _Ouija!_ ” 

Slamming the board down in the middle of the carpet, she beckons for the three of you to follow.

“Yeah. While we’re on the topic of mildly concerning and possibly sp- spooper- _supernatural_ occurrences. Check this shit out.”

She places her hands gingerly on the skull-patterned planchette, closing her eyes as the room holds its breath. Cautiously, slowly and one at a time, you and the others reach to touch your fingers to hers. You place a steadying hand on John’s shoulder as he hesitates, locking eyes for a long, solemn moment.

You don’t know what it is. The silence, the stillness of the blonde girl’s body as she sits, cross legged and rigid on the floor, the sudden light of the sun crawling over the ceiling- but something’s changed. The giddy warmth of the conversation from just moments ago dissipates like a cloud burned away by daylight, and you feel the slight pressure of John and Jade’s unsteady hands pressing onto your own. For a beat of still, blessed quiet, nothing happens. But then, soft and low in the unbroken atmosphere, Rose’s voice slips into the world.

“Tell them what you told me.”

It begins with a sort of distant ringing. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, something tugs at you to respond - and so, you do. It’s not- it’s not _you_ , writhing from the void you didn't know you had, but an _echo_ of you, shapeless and formless as it travels to your fingertips, pulsing down into the wood. A chill, dry wind circles through the room, and you’re dimly aware of Becquerel’s growling whines, and John gasping and grabbing his hand away from the pile. The wind drops back into stillness, as if it was never even there.

But- it’s not Becquerel emitting those low, rough tones, it’s _Jade,_ grumbling deep in her throat; it’s Rose, humming tunelessly in one, solid note, and it’s _you,_ your heartbeat loud and clean in the air, ticking like the hands of an old, polished clock as it pulses with the blood in your ears and the bright spots dancing over your vision-

“Rise up.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Your name is Karkat Vantas, and they’ve found you. You don’t know who- the FBI, maybe; those jackasses have been on your ass since forever. The witches? It could be the witches, sending some poor new recruit out into the dream planes to spy on you from afar. The Handmaid is not an easy one to avoid, you know that much.

But still, you thought you’d been doing well: you’ve covered your tracks, avoiding anywhere that had even the remotest possibility of being a haunt for the- well, hauntings, that have plagued you from well into your childhood. No credit card trail, no fingerprints, no lingering energies of what you reluctantly call your power- they shouldn’t have been able to, but they did. The bastards found you, and now, your face set in a scowl and a dark, heavy pit gaping open in your stomach, you realise something else.

You’re going to have to move.

  
  



	2. Tie-Dye Curtains with a Side of Batshit Crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all! so much! for all the positive comments and kudos! i wasn't sure what to expect with this honestly but im so glad you guys like it so far, and i hope i can keep up the standard hjsdhdfh  
> -damien <>

When at last you open your eyes, it takes you a moment to realise how wrong everything is.

You’re in your room, tucked under the ruffled covers with your limbs draped haphazardly around you - okay, so maybe you passed out, and Jade could have carried you upstairs with ease, but- man, is this even your shirt? The faded grey cloth clinging to your torso is soft, and warm, with some sort of symbol you don't recognise emblazoned on the front. You suppose it’s possible one of your friends donated a more comfortable shirt for you to sleep in. Weird, but sort of possible. What’s absolutely fucking batshit, however, are the mounds of unfamiliar pillows surrounding you, and reddish tie-dye curtains that have replaced your usual crumbling blinds.

  
“I- John? This- this isn’t funny, man, you’re freaking me out.”

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, looking warily at the closed door.

  
“Rose? Y’all, what sort of fuckery is this, just-”  
Dimly aware of the new lack of mess on the floorboards, you pad over to the window and dubiously reach towards the curtains. “What sort of person tidies and refurbishes a dude’s room while he’s sleeping, man?” You call out, yanking open the thin fabric and squinting into the early sunlight. “What the-”  
“Dave, love? You okay?”

  
A soft, nasally voice floats through the air, stirring a distant sense of comfort in your chest. Slowly, you turn back to face it, and- there he is again, one exposed hip propping open the door, with two of your favourite mugs in his hands and a pair of your baggy track pants barely clinging to his legs, that same, curly-haired stranger with a look of concern in his eyes.

  
“I- did Dirk put you up to this, man?”

  
“What do you- oh. _Oh_. This is- this is your first one.”

  
“First what now-”

  
He takes a cautious step forward, leaning to place the mugs on the bedside table. As he moves to take another step, you take several paces backwards, and he freezes in place, an odd, helpless expression picking at his face.  
“Dave, it’s okay. It’s just me. It’s Karkat.”

  
“Sorry man, I don’t know any Kitkats, I think you’ve gotten me confused with someone. Also, slightly more importantly, what the fuck has happened to my house?”

  
With you backed against a wall, he slowly moves forward, arms held out like someone approaching a wild animal. “I- I think I’m supposed to say ‘it’ll make sense eventually’ or something equally irritating and cryptic.”

  
“Supposed to- bro, what are you on?”

  
He laughs, warm and genuine, but tinged with a sort of desperate sadness, turning his eyes to the ground for a moment.  
“It’s going to be okay, love. First it’s going to be shit, but then, now, it’ll be pretty damn good, if I’m being honest. I’m only saying this because you- now you- won’t remember it properly, but- listen. Please don’t freak out, because I swear on my life you told me to do this, only I said I wouldn’t because it’s fucking dumb, and-”

  
“Dude. You’re making less sense by the second.” You cut in, eyeing him warily as he raises one hand, shuffling up close and cupping your chin. Part of you wants to duck away, swatting at his hand like a perpetually buzzing insect, but… another part wants to stay. Somehow, he sees this, and his features soften, shoulders relaxing. You want to stay here, forever, your heart beating like mad as this total stranger leans in towards you, pulling your face down to his and placing his free hand on your waist, you want to hold onto this moment for all eternity as your eyes flutter closed and you feel the lightest, gentlest feather-like brush against your lips-

  
But before it really begins, the second has passed. Your eyes are still closed, scrunched up against a blinding light as your whole body jumps into a pounding, burning ache, your own skin pressing against you as a hollow feeling grows in your stomach. That was different to the other times. Equally as real, equally as solid, but somehow- less like a freaky trip, and more like-  
A memory. The thought comes to you from somewhere else, somewhere warm and familiar and hurtling through space.  
By now, the painful realisation of your own body has passed, and your eyes open to two worried, freckle-covered faces leaning over you.  
“Is- is he awake?”

  
Nervously, John lets go of your shoulder as you force yourself into a sitting position from where you had fallen against the ground.  
“I’m awake. What the fuck just happened?”

  
“I don’t know, man, it’s like you went all…”

  
“Zen?” Jade suggests, handing you a glass of water.

“Yeah. Zen.”

“Wh- meaning what, exactly?”

  
Hesitating for a moment, John stares at you uncomfortably.  
“It was like you knew something that we didn’t. Just sort of- it was definitely you, but maybe if you were like, high or something. You weren’t making any sense, man.”

“Feeling’s mutual.”

  
Somewhere outside the open window, a chorus of birds begins its morning cries, and a horrible thought strikes you, lodging deep in your mind. “How- how long was I out. I mean- how long has it been since Rose started fucking with the Ouija board?”  
A day ago, you would never have even considered the idea - it’s just that with whatever the hell just happened, you’re prepared to believe anything.

  
“I know what you’re thinking, and I doubt that you were inhabited by anything, Dave. I would have- what I’m trying to say is that John was right. It definitely was still you.”

  
Rose’s words carry over from the doorway, where she stands with her arms crossed and brows furrowed together.  
“To actually answer your question: not long. It can’t have been more than five minutes or so. As soon as the board stopped giving us random letters, you passed out for a moment, and then… it was as if you were trying to tell us something, but weren’t sure how to.”  
Rise up.

  
“Random letters? I don’t-” You stop yourself, shaking your head.  
You must have just been seeing things before that- whatever it was. Either that, or the nonsensical phrase was also some mystical shit that you get the impression you should keep to yourself.  
“I have to go check my room. I mean- I’m gonna go to my room. To bed. Yeah. Bed.”  
The three of them nod in assent, and move to pick up their things to leave, but Jade pauses

.  
“Are you sure you’re okay Dave?”  
This- this would be the best moment to confess. To talk about that freakily appearing pretty boy with a mostly sober mind, to give yourself a release from those terrifyingly sharp visions and just sink into the support you know you have now - but old habits die hard, you suppose. You force a tired smile, and pick yourself up from the floor.  
“Yeah, bro. I’m good.” I just really gotta get to sleep.”

Creeping upstairs, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. Your eyes are slipping closed in that peaceful, perfect way, and your bedroom is blissfully ordinary, cluttered and cosy just as you left it. Eventually, your racing thoughts turn quiet, settling into that dreamless limbo between wakefulness and sleep. No tie-dye curtains, no brandishing scythes and chipped black nails, no sleepy-eyed stranger making your heart jump into your throat; just simple, effortless quiet.  
It’s a welcome relief, this wave of cool, soothing nothingness; thoughtless, noiseless and warm under the covers.  
But as with all of these moments, it doesn’t last forever.

  
Your eyes snap open to a field of glass. The reflection in front of you is broken and distorted, marred by dark grime and lancing cracks spreading over the surface like scars. The rest of the room isn’t much better. Peeling walls and a creaking bedframe, a dresser on bowing legs that have seen better centuries, all sparse and dull after fuck knows how long rotting away in this place. The yellowed blinds are closed against the sunlight, so you have no way of judging where you are. All you know for sure is that this place is an absolute shithole.  
For some reason, that makes it easier to reconcile with yourself the fraying backpack lying open on the dresser, and the multitude of curved, deadly looking things spilling out of it; and of fucking course, in the corner of your vision, a by now far too familiar shape stands frozen, his expression set in a frustrated scowl.

  
“What the fuck do you want from me?”

  
“I- you what?”

  
Growling deep in his throat and taking a sideways step towards the dresser, he rephrases the question.  
“You just followed me to a whole other continent, and you’re trying to play dumb, huh fuckass? Come on.”  
Another step, and a narrow-eyed glance.

  
“That’s powerful stuff. You can’t really be trying to convince me you’re just some nosy prick trying to stalk me. So who do you work for? The witches?”

  
“I, uh. Sure. Let’s pretend I believe in a magical cult made up of elderly green ladies for a moment. Why the fuck not?”

  
In less than an instant, he’s at your throat, one of those menacing, almost circular blades held against you. This close, you can hear the slight accent in his voice, sort of soft and guttural, from somewhere you can't quite place.

  
“You think you’re funny or something, ghosty?”

  
Before, when his fist knocked into you and the cobbles of that alley protruded into your hands, you couldn’t really- feel them, per se, but you felt their shape, their existence, their force pushing against your apparent nothingness- this is different. The blade against your throat presses into your skin, cold and slick as reality. And somehow, it fucking _hurts_.

  
“I don’t know how or why you’re doing this, but I would appreciate it if you left me the fuck alone from now on, capiche?”

  
“Dude, I ain’t doing shit, I’m not some magic wielding man-witch with a penchant for perving on little cuddly-lookin’ dudes with a lot of scythes. I just keep trying to sleep and getting dragged over to you. This must be on you, man.”

  
“Bullshit. And they are obviously sickles, you snivelling fuckwit.”

  
“Jeez, sorry for misnaming your pointy things, Kitkat, but I feel like maybe that’s not the most pressing matter right now?”

  
“You- I- what did you just call me?”

  
“Isn’t that your name? Like, I thought it was kind of strange, but I mean, definitely not as strange as what happened after, so I just kind of brushed it off.”

  
“ _Brushed it off_ \- who the fuck _are_ you?”  
He backs away slightly, the pressure on your throat lessening.

  
“I’m Dave, bro. Dave Strider. You seemed way more than aware of that last time.”

  
“I- I’ve never spoken to you in my life?”

  
There’s a sort of glaze over his eyes, a sheen of blankness covering his still obvious confusion.  
Giving in, he backs off fully, the blade withdrawing to hang limply at his side.

  
“I haven’t told anybody that name in years. Something’s really fucked up about you.”

  
“Holy- so that’s actually it? What, at your foetus-revealus party did your parents feel a kick and go ‘oh shit babe I think it’s a kitkat, trademark?’ They just fucking did that? Is that legal?”

  
“I- What- No? _That's_ what you took from that statement?”

  
“I didn’t think so. Is that why you’re on the run? You want to keep your illegal brand name? You- you wouldn't stay in this shithole if you had any other choice, right?”

  
“I’m- my name is not fucking kitkat. It’s Karkat, you pretentious ass. Jesus,”

  
“You know, I’m really getting some mixed signals here.”

  
“Wh- you- fucking- no shit-“ He sputters, half stumbling to sit on the bed. “If you’re genuinely not with any of the fuckton of organisations out to get me, which I don't believe for a second, then I still have to deal with you one way or another. I can’t have some brainless shades-wearing prick blabbing my location to all his little friends, because who knows what voodoo shit they might have done on you to make this happen, who knows fucking _anything_ right now?”

  
Hes babbling now, eyes wild and a terrifyingly intense glare focussed on you, one hand still resting on the blade hooked over his belt.  
“Whoah, I uh- You say fuck a lot. And that’s coming from me, man, the fuck-sayer extraordinaire of Dersite Street.”  
For what seems like an eternity, his mouth hangs open, silenced by sheer pent-up confusion.  
Not wanting to leave him like this, you take over.

  
“You know, I feel like we got off on the wrong- limb. As in, so far from the correct foot that its not even a wrong foot anymore, its a disembodied leg or some shit up in space, just vibin’. Like some astronaut could come across it and go ‘Uhh Houston we have a problem, there’s like, an actual leg up here.’ and they’ll be all like ‘Oh shit dawg what’s it doing,’ ‘I dunno fam just hanging.’ ‘Not like doing a jig or anything?’ ‘Now that you bring it up yeah I think it might be just doing a little dance out there,’ ‘Ahaha lit,’ and that’s how on the wrong foot we got off here, man.”

  
“I- you fucking-”

  
Something in him seems to- snap. He buries his face in his hands, elbows digging into his legs, and begins shaking oddly, disjointed and out of place even in the uncomfortable tension of the room.

“Are you… Are you good, dude?”

  
Oh, congratulations, Dave. You broke the fucking magical dream stranger.  
Cautiously, you drift towards him in one smooth, unbroken movement, by now unbothered by your half-corporeal form.

“Kit- Karkat?”

  
No response.

  
“Come on, work with me here, I promise I’m just as concerned as you are.”

  
As your reaching hand brushes against his shoulder, you notice several things. Firstly, you can touch him. It’s not like before, when the essence of his anger seemed to plough through your chest and mind, or as if you’re both real and solid like last time- but your fingers halt at his skin, light and careful and barely even acknowledging the thick fabric of his sweater, like dipping your hand into unmoving water and feeling the base of the container at your fingertips.

  
And in that moment, it’s as if you understand everything. Time, reality, the truth about the soul, all flooding into you riding on a wave of impossible visions, flashes of memories that are not your own, although they come from within your mind-  
But in a single, fleeting second, it passes, as suddenly and unexpectedly as it began. Jolted back to consciousness by the contact, he flinches away, looking incredulously up at you.

  
“Uh, sorry man, I didn’t know it would- do that-”

  
“No, no, it’s-”

  
Almost too quickly to see, there’s a flash of recognition in his eyes, and you know without a doubt that this was not a one-sided exchange. Following this, his face falls, shoulders dropping and a small, quiet shudder creeping into his voice as he croaks something under his breath.

  
“What- what was that?”

  
“I said-” he growls, pushing you back as he stands up to his full height, which admittedly isn’t all that intimidating. But you see it again now, that glassy, burning fear that fuels him lurking in his eyes; and that’s not something you want to draw out.

  
“-you have to _leave_ , Strider.”

* * *

And he does. Almost the moment you decide he should be, the shades-wearing prick is gone, leaving the room all too empty.  
Perhaps there’s truth to what he said.

  
Perhaps- it is you.

  
But that goes against everything, all that you’ve learned and discovered through all these years of hiding away in the shadows and doing all you could to control this ability.

  
You don’t like to call it that.  
It’s more of a curse, if anything.

  
It was okay, while your grandpa was alive, as you sat on his lap and he told you stories of your family’s blessing, this wonderful connection to other planes of the universe.

  
As a kid, you didn’t understand much of it. You just sat, and listened, drifting off against him and dreaming of your future, full of the adventures and magic of a young child’s mind, and the comforting weight of your grandfather’s big, scarred arms around you.  
You just wish you’d had longer to listen to him.


	3. Rye Bread and a Frustrating Amount of Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people be out here liking this im???? thank you so much, to everyone who's commented, and everything, y'all r giving me LIFE  
> -damien

It’s a strange feeling, forgetting something. Is it missing, after all, if you have nothing to say it was ever there to begin with?

Forgetting something as huge, real and well-  _ unforgettable  _ as the answers to every fucking question you’ve ever asked yourself? That shit’s just infuriating.

For a while, you just lie there, eyes wide open as you take in the blank whiteness of the ceiling, ignoring the dull aches creeping up your back from being stiffly positioned like this for so long.

You’ll have to get up at some point. It’s- what, the middle of the day now? 

Once again, that shifting light traces a path over the walls, and once again, you could stay here forever.

But this isn’t the same.

In that bright, dreamlike memory - you still can't bring yourself to think of it as anything else - you were warm. You were wanted, held up by a feeling you can’t quite place as he- as  _ Karkat  _ pulled you close, and you let him. Now? 

There’s nothing here. You’re just… hollow, silent, so many clashing thoughts running through your mind that all you hear is white noise.

Then suddenly, horribly, you feel yourself drifting, pulled once again by unknown forces.

Clenching your teeth to tether yourself, you pull back against the force, trying to wrench yourself away from its terrifying grip - but of course, to no avail.

Flashes of-  _ something  _ dance before your eyes, curdled shards of light and dark and joy and fear, each fleeting scene adding one more cord to the restraints that drag you further into impossible places and fragmented visions; until everything stops.

Frozen in place, you stare in horror at your own kitchen, the counters polished and clear save for the infuriatingly recognisable figure kneading dough against an ancient plastic board. For a minute, you watch him, letting your heart rate slow to the beat of the soft, quiet hum emanating from somewhere in the room. It’s- sort of raspy, harmonious and clear, drifting through the air like a familiar, sweet scent.

_ Like home _ .

You suppose that only makes sense; you  _ are  _ home, but- no, this building, this room, adorned with new photos and a lemon-yellow tint, that’s not home.

_ He is. _

And there they are again, those words that aren't yours in a voice that undoubtedly is, dim in the back of your mind.

You watch his hands, calloused like yours, but practised and delicate as they push into the dough, the movement sending plumes of flour cascading off his fingers.

With your mind calmer and your heart resting in place, you can hear the words hidden amongst his humming, mumbled and broken in a language you don’t understand, and  _ perfect  _ despite it all.

“ _ Minä tarttuisin sinuun kysymättä- _ “

_ I would stick to you without asking  _

For a while, you just listen. Your eyes fixed to the steady movement of his shoulders and the words growing clearer in your mind, you take it all in.

_ “ _ _ Minä pelkäisi sinussa en olla-” _

_ I would be afraid of you not being. _

When a strand of hair falls into his face, he absentmindedly tucks it back behind one ear, oblivious to the dusting of flour wiping off onto his cheek - and without thinking, you pad over to him and brush the back of your hand over his face to wipe it off, pulling yourself up to sit on the counter beside his board.

He jokingly bats at your leg, then steps back as you flinch away, suddenly all too aware of where you are.

“Strider? You okay?”

“I- can you really not just tell me what’s going on? I mean, one minute you’re banishing me from a shady motel room and now you’re baking bread in my kitchen, except for some reason its yellow in here, and I sort of really want to go back to sleep but I  _ don't know what the fuck is happening to me? _ ”

His face falls, settling into frustration- but not, you think, aimed at you. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t do that, Dave.”

“I- okay Hal 2.0. Keep your secrets. But If you start singing ‘daisy, daisy’ I am  _ out  _ of here, man.”

Features softening, he leans against the back of a chair, crossing his arms.

“It’d- fuck shit up?” He says, questioningly. “I can’t- it’s hard to explain. You’re sort of- going backwards.”

“Going… backwards. Y’all tryna convince me I’m insane or something? Or stuck in some supernatural backwards moonwalk like a particularly fucked up crab? Cause like. I think it might be working, bro, and I just want to know if- I’m just really messed up right now, Kitkat.”

Usually, you’d be snappish and short in your confusion, refusing to admit to it- but you’re tired, and worried, and above all, you do  _ not  _ want to upset Karkat. 

Why? Fuck knows. 

But you get the feeling it’s important.

Voice quiet and sombre as if some unseen intruders might hear, he hisses a reply.

“Have you- do you know what you can  _ do, _ Strider?”

“I’m pretty good at mixing some absolute jams, but other than that, not really.”

“Okay. What year is it?”

“Dude, what sort of question is that?”

“Oh come on, work with me here you obstinate wankstain. What year?”

_ There’s _ that other Karkat, his brow furrowed and eyes darkening in thought. This, oddly enough, you can understand.

Perhaps, somewhere in your mind, it closes the distance between those other, dreamlike visions, and this surreal, horrifyingly solid experience.

“I’m- I don’t know, man, you think I keep track of that? Every year is shittier than the one before, so what’s the point in keeping track?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“2018.”

“Ah. Right.”

“ _ Ah, right-  _ okay so. Genuine question. What, in all sincerity, the shit? Like, listen chief, I’m trying to be reasonable here but  _ clearly _ you’re not willing to reciprocate, and, not going to lie to you man, I am losing my absolute shit here, so? Maybe stop being cryptic, for just a second? I’m literally begging you, and not even in a horny way?”

“I- hold on, I- have to grab something.”

Staring blankly, you watch him crouch down and begin to rifle about in a drawer, eventually fishing out a broken-looking notepad with a multitude of phallic crayon scribbles all over the paper cover.

“What is that, your dick diary?”

“Jesus, I forgot how infuriating you used to be. Like sure, your verbal diarrhea can be constructive and maybe sorta cute to an extent-”

Throughout this tirade, he’s flicking through the notebook, sometimes pausing on a page and skimming over it before moving on to dickier pastures and creamer skies.

“-obviously that doesn’t mean that the concept of the self is permanent, more like some fucky collection of bits of each other, and- ah, here it is.”

“Okay. Wack.”

“Shut up. I- you’re from, what, September?”

“Uh. I’m from Texas, man.”

“I fucking  _ know  _ you’re from Texas, I’m- Strider, love, I am about to  _ remove _ your spinal cord-”

He brandishes the book at you menacingly, the effect somewhat lessened by the oversized pyjama shirt he’s wearing -  _ your _ shirt, you notice with an odd twist in your stomach - and the fact that even sitting on the counter you manage to tower over him.

“What  _ month _ is it. For you. Asshole.”

“Um. February?”

“Oh.”

“ _ Oh?” _

Confusion growing by the second, you pinch the bridge of your nose and go to rub your eyes underneath your shades, and suddenly realise why the room seems brighter than usual.

“Dude, where are my shades?”

“You… you don’t wear them as much anymore. Mostly just outside of the house. They were a comfort thing, right?”

“ _ Anymore-  _ Jesus. Okay. Simple words, dude, what do you even mean by that?”

“Ah, fuck, you haven’t like-”

Flipping to the next page in the book, he moves closer, eyeing you cautiously. You strain to catch a glimpse of whatever he’s reading, but only manage to catch a blur of red scribbles before he notices, and slams the cover down on it.

“Don't fuck up your future. I’m under express orders from a more irritating authority to not let you see this. But, uh.”

He pauses and takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself for some long-anticipated speech.

“I guess, in simple words- welcome to 2020, jackass. We, uh- we hope you enjoy your stay.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


After your grandpa passed, there was nobody else to teach you.

Your father, the crabby shitstain, was never much for conversation, and Kankri- well, any closeness you had with your brother when you were kids was strenuous at best. At worst, he was lecturing you about fuck knows what in a vain attempt to transfer his insufferable niceties onto you.

It’s no wonder you found the others.

You remember it clearly even now, that day, only thirteen and  _ terrified _ as you stepped over the threshold into a room full of smoke and unseen watchers, your gaze flitting about as you desperately tried to see into the cloying darkness.

Thankfully, this place is different.

The house itself is large and boxy, all white panels and seamless windows stretching up into balconies covered in hanging vines. Not at all the sort of place you’d expect to find a coven - or a  _ Session,  _ as they so inelegantly like to put it. But there’s one here, you can sense it- eight, maybe ten people, people like you, hushed and secretive in their clandestine gathering. 

Reading the room, and pointedly ignoring its words, you bang on the door several times with a fist.

“Hey, assholes! Any chance you’ve got a seer in there? Maybe some dumbass wearing shades indoors?”

Across the street, a mother grabs her child’s hand and tugs them away, and behind the door, something shuffles around in a way that they clearly hope you won't notice.

“I can hear you in there, witchy - I promise I’m not one of your imaginary evil chess pieces.”

Whacking the door again, you begin rattling the handle.

“Hey, witches! It’s me, ya boy! The fucking- what was it, plasma pimp?”

The shuffling moves closer, then stops.

“Blood boy? Whatever the fuck that means? Come on, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t absolutely have to be.”

You raise your fist to start knocking again, but before it connects, the door swings inwards, and you stumble forward onto the inside doormat.

“Oh, dick move, witchy.” You grumble, brushing yourself off as the dark-robed figure watches you from the corner of your eye. When you stand up, they pull back their hood, revealing dark skin and sharp, greenish eyes.

“What is it you want, Knight of Blood.”

They speak in a way that makes it seem as if every word is capitalised, the sentence slightly broken with the emphasis in all the wrong places.

“Good to see you again too, Kan.”

She smiles stiffly, and tilts her head in your direction.

“It has been a long time, Sufferer’s child. I almost did not recognise you.”

“Come on, don’t call me that, I always tell you I don't have anything to do with your bullshit myths.”

Silently, she looks down at you for a moment, unblinking, before turning her back and beckoning you to follow.

“Our Sylph of Light is here currently. She may be able to illuminate whatever it is you wish to ask.”

“Oh, puns. Glad to see you’ve finally developed a sense of humour. Even if it’s shit.”

A quizzical head tilt later, she guides you into an ominously gothic back room, pushing through heavy curtains to reach a small, huddled circle of people in those painfully garish sacred pyjamas that the ‘Players’ favour. The coloured candles in their hands flicker as you enter, wisps of smoke drifting through the stuffy air as each face snaps towards you, half obscured by the deep shadows cast by their hoods. Most of them you recognise; Tavros, his eyes surveying you with a nervous distrust, Sollux, studiously avoiding your once-familiar gaze. You’re not going to pretend it doesn’t sting.

But you suppose you deserve it, after what you did.

“Hello, Karkat.”

This second voice is smoother, but still as stiff and guarded as you’ve come to expect.

Wrenching your thoughts away from your old friends, you continue.

“Sylph of Light, I assume? Nice PJs. Interesting colour choice. Really gives a good strong burning sensation in the eyes.”

“What do you want, Vantas?”

“Straight to the point, huh? Okay - what the  _ fuck _ is up with the dude you keep sending after me? Is he just dumb as shit? Intentionally being a prick? Where is he, anyway?”

You scan the room again, searching for his stupid stoic face, probably wearing those fucking shades even in this gloom. For whatever reason, they seem like a permanent fixture.

“I am sorry, Karkat, but whoever is following you is not of our Session.”

“Oh, no no no, he absolutely is- you’re the only ones who know me well enough to send that specific brand of irritating. Don’t bullshit me, Kan.”

“She’s right, nubs, this ain’t us.”

Turning on a heel, you set your face in an even deeper scowl before spitting out a greeting in a forced cheery tone.

“Serket! You’re still breathing.”

“Alive as ever, I’m afraid.”

“ _ Afr-eight _ \- jesus, still obsessed with speaking like a fucking congested clown, I see.”

“You know it!”

The sylph stands up and moves towards you, pushing down Serket’s finger guns as she passes.

“Follow me, please. I have no way to prove to you that we had nothing to do with your problem- but I believe I have something that may help.”

* * *

“Okay, okay who the hell is  _ we-  _ that a figurative ‘we’, or what-”

The no-longer-a-stranger stares, nonplussed.

“I- I guess it’s a plural we? There’s- it’s us, love. Some version of us- like I said. I can’t explain too much, or you’ll go and break time or some equally Stridery bullshit.”

“Oh, come  _ on,  _ man! How would I even go about breaking fuckin’  _ time _ , even if I wanted to?”

He tilts his head, giving an almost apologetic shrug, then skims through another page of the notebook, the apology turning into a sigh of resignation.

“I think you’re going to leave now.”

Asshole.

When your head stops spinning and your limbs stop being they’ve just been filled with lead, you blink in the bright yellow light. 

Hold on, what the fuck  _ is  _ that light-

You rub your eyes furiously, yanking down the shades that you’ve somehow pushed on top of your head in this latest bout of timefuckery, and your heart sinks as you identify the source of the light. Pesterchum, open to the home screen, with a series of concerned, violet questions popping up in the corner.

**TT: Dave?**

**TT: Are you there, Dave? What’s going on?**

**TT: I’m serious. You’re worrying me.**

**TT: WHAT THE * FUCK * IS UP WITH YOU, FUCKING STALKER ASS GHOSTPRICK?**

**TT: I’m sorry, that was a friend. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.**

**TT: LIKE SHIT I DON’T. WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT WITH ME?**

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT]

**TG: sorry rose i have exactly zero idea whats going on over there**

**TG: are yall good**

**TT: NO WE ARE NOT FUCKING GOOD.**

**TT: Yes, everything is fine with me. I’m worried about you, though. What did you mean by all of that?**

**TG: all of what now**

**TT: UM YOU FUCKINGDH BBBAGOF NSDICKSFUCKING SHADESASS FUCNBV**

**TT: SHresertFYGJVHBJY5674I8,P0.98MU**

**TT: ggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggghGHBNHBJNKM**

**TG: uh**

**TG: ill ask again**

**TG: yall good**

**TG: like im genuinely concerned now what the shit is going on over there**

**TT: I have to go. Read through our message history.**

tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased being pestered by  turntechGodhead [TG]

Oh, fuck. You’d been afraid of this. 

Whatever asshole yoinked your body when you got whisked away to futuretown has really gone and fucked up now, trying to scare your friends or whatever. Terror building in your stomach, you click open your messages and scroll backwards until you see something that makes that terror curl itself into a ball and shudder.

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT]

 **TG: rose**

**TG: rose rose rose rose rose**

**TG: im not gonna lie to you im absolutely here to fuck about because i know shits all gonna be gucci in the end so like**

**TG: hows your vamp gf over in this weird ass alternate frog or whatever**

**TT: Excuse me? I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.**

**TG: oh are you not all gayed up yet here my bad**

**TG: ignore that question**

**TG: okay so what happened with sburb im genuinely curious how shit played out here**

**TT: Dave. What, in all sincerity, the fuck? Are you high? Do you need me to come over?**

**TG: shit no dont trouble yourself im good**

**TG: just wondering if you ever played sburb is all**

**TT: Weren’t you and John playing it just the other night?**

**TG: what and nothing weird happened**

**TG: like no sudden unforeseen meteor showers for entirely innocuous and unrelated reasons**

**TT: I’m coming over.**

**TG: no no no dont be doing that**

**TG: okay okay new subject hows karkles**

**TG: not that im like overeager to hear hes okay or anything just perfectly ordinary bro like concern**

**TT: Dave, you are doing absolutely nothing to dissuade me from going over there. I don’t know who ‘karkles’ is.**

**TG: you know kitkat**

**TG: beep beep meow or whatever the fuck egbert said that one time**

**TG: gotta say i was surprised i didnt see him at that last little party**

**TG: was that a human only gig cause i gotta say that sounds horrifyingly out of character for us**

**TT: Okay. I’m on my way.**

**TG: oh shit no dont do that**

**TG: hes coming back now i gotta go**

**TG: yall better be less troll racist next time i drop in or ill get my rose to write you a strongly worded yet concise and easily memorable note that i can pass onto you**

**TG: gg for now homie**

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT]

What the fuck.

God, you’re dead. You’re  _ so  _ dead.

You had hoped to drag this out for much longer, maybe -  _ hopefully _ \- forever, never having to explain these blackouts and mad hallucinogenic scythe boy trips. Weirdly enough, it seems like body-thief Dave is in some even deeper shit than you, with the trippy shit he was trying to pull.

You push the thought aside for now. 

You’ve got your own problems to deal with.

  
  



End file.
